Years ago,
or so it seems,
when “love” was finally allowed,
you said to me:
“Write me a poem.”

Years ago,
and I mean Years Ago,
the words wouldn’t stop.
And I loved them all.
And they all meant I was alive
and they didn’t have to mean much.

Years ago,
but more recent than I’d like,
I gave it all away.
Dizzy, naked, ******,
the walls were blank and close
and my head was always pounding:
IDONOTHAVEAPROBLEM:

I
    am
         an
             artist...

Years ago,
or so it seems,
when it was ok to cry
and your bed became my bed,
you uttered the most horrifying words
I could ever have possibly heard:
“Write me a poem.”

Here it is.  Now.
There’s blood in my eyes
and a ringing in my ears --
but my head is gone
and my hands are gone.
And I can’t hide.
Not anymore.